


How Terrible to See

by lovetincture



Series: and take the gods for fools [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M, Oedipal Issues, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Sam slides his hand up, up, into Dean’s hair where it’s just getting long enough in the back to pull. He does. He fists his hand in it and pulls, wrenching Dean’s head back on a choked gasp. “Are you afraid it means you want to do her too?”“Jesus, Sam,” he breathes, broken and shivering, but it isn’tno.It’s never no, with Sam.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: and take the gods for fools [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935910
Comments: 17
Kudos: 66





	How Terrible to See

He’s  _ there, _ he’s into it, but there’s this look on Sam’s face, this worried, pinched expression that only goes into hiding when Sam notices him looking and tries to smooth it away.

Dean sighs. He straightens until he’s sitting up. “What is it, Sammy?”

Sam looks away. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing or you wouldn’t be making that face. C’mon, you know you’re going to tell me eventually. Might as well get it over with.”

“Is this… weird, now that Mom’s back?”

Dean flinches. “Jesus Christ, why would you bring Mom into this?”

Sam gives him a wry look. “I mean.”

Dean makes a face. “Well now you’ve ruined it. Thanks, bitch.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam smirks.

Dean’s brother is a dick.

* * *

He hadn’t meant to make it into a thing, really. Dean didn’t have  _ things, _ as a general rule. He’s been with a few kinky chicks, ones who liked it rough, ones who liked to be tied up with slippery-soft ropes and teased until they cried. Ones who wanted to tie  _ him _ up. He can get into it. Sex is sex, and he’s not one to turn down a meal. As far as he was aware, there wasn’t anything in particular that lit his fire. He was a simple guy.

They’d stumbled upon it by  _ accident, _ is the bitch of it.

“Fucking mama’s boy,” Sam had muttered during sex one day—weirdest fucking thing, to this day Dean still doesn’t know where it came from—just another phrase in the litany of filth that poured from Sam’s mouth whenever he got close to the edge.

If you’d asked Dean before it happened, he’d have expected to give Sammy hell for it. Tease him ‘til kingdom come. But hell if it hadn’t set Dean off like a goddamn rocket, flipping a switch he didn’t even know he had, slamming it _hard._

Sam didn’t say anything after, and neither did Dean. He didn’t have to, not when he could see the calculating, thoughtful expression on Sam’s face.

So. Dean has a—a thing. It’s whatever.

It had  _ been _ whatever until Mom came back. Until Sam brought her into it. Now he can’t look at her the same, keeps having intrusive thoughts or whatever, and it’s distracting and weird.

“Dean?”

He hadn’t realized he’d been spacing out, but Mom is looking at him, smiling faintly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he rumbles. “Yeah, of course. I’m fine.”

“Late night?” she asks sympathetically, and he almost chokes.

“Something like that.”

He resolutely tries not to picture himself on his knees, looking up at Sammy, all 6’4” of him, his big paw rubbing through Dean’s hair and calling him a  _ good boy. _ It’s like that thing they say about pink elephants. He’s pretty sure he blushes like a tomato. He makes an excuse and gets the hell out of dodge.

He doesn’t consciously avoid Sam for the rest of the day. The bunker is a big place (even when it’s made smaller by so many strangers) and it’s easy enough to coincidentally be anywhere but where Sam is.

Sam finds him in his room when it’s creeping on 6 o’clock, knocks but doesn’t wait for a response before swinging the door open.

“You know the point is you’re supposed to wait for the person to say ‘come in’ before you come in, right?”

Sam ignores him. “Are you hungry? Maggie made chili.”

“I’ll get some later.”

Sam sucks his teeth and looks the way he looks when he’s putting together the pieces of a case. “Might not be any later.”

Dean shrugs. Sam closes the door behind him, and Dean tosses the Sudoku puzzle he’s been working on down on the bed, along with the pencil.

“What’s up? You didn’t come in here to tell me dinner’s ready.”

“I did,” Sam says mulishly. “You’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not.”

“Dean.”

“Is it because of the thing I said? About Mom?”

“Jesus, Sam. Leave it alone.”

But Sam doesn’t, because Dean’s brother is  _ evil. _

“Have you been thinking about it?” Sam asks.

Dean keeps his mouth resolutely shut, but then, that’s an answer too, in their world. Sam lets himself into Dean’s space just like he let himself into Dean’s room—into his heart, his mind, into his pants on a regular basis. He comes close and sits down on Dean’s bed, the mattress dipping under his large frame. Dean doesn’t make it easy, doesn’t move his legs to make room, but Sam scoots him aside.

He can smell Sam at this distance, soap and laundry detergent and the faint whiff of his aftershave. He smells woodsy and warm. He smells delicious, like Sam’s got an olfactory line right to Dean’s dick (his heart, his soul, his everything).

“What are you worried about?” Sam asks, and this is exactly why he’s so dangerous. This is the part no one sees before it’s too late, the  _ it’s all good, I’m your friend _ patina. The kind mouth and sensitive eyes. The lure just before the trap snaps shut. The thing is, it isn’t even manipulation, not necessarily. It can be, but it isn’t always. It comes as natural to Sam as breathing.

People may want to get into Dean’s pants and into his bed—they may want to shoot pool and drink beer and talk shit—but it’s Sam they want to protect. It’s Sam they want to bare their hearts and souls too, and Sam doesn’t even want it. He might think he does, but only ever for a little while.

Sam gets bored. Sam’s got a vicious streak in him. Dean fucking loves him like burning.

“Who says I’m worried?”

“You’re worried about something, or you wouldn’t push me away.”

“Maybe I just want some space, ever think of that? Maybe not everything’s about you.”

Sam’s mouth curls into a smile, and he laughs. He actually laughs. “No, I don’t think so.”

Dean doesn’t either. It was a weak attempt.

Sam curls into his space, pressing his palm to Dean’s chest and fitting into his side. “What are you worried about?” Sam asks again. “Do you think Mom’s going to find out?”

Dean shakes his head.

Sam slides his hand up, up, into Dean’s hair where it’s just getting long enough in the back to pull. He does. He fists his hand in it and pulls, wrenching Dean’s head back on a choked gasp. “Are you afraid it means you want to do her too?”

“Jesus, Sam,” he breathes, broken and shivering, but it isn’t  _ no. _ It’s never no, with Sam.

Sam watches him, watches him with eyes that pick him apart and put him back together, and behind it a mind that never stops moving, whirring, working through the possibilities.

“You and Mom,” he says. “Huh.”

_ “No,” _ Dean says, but it’s much too little, way too late.

Sam flicks Dean’s jeans open with one hand, popping the button open with his thumb, yanking down the zipper so he can push his hand inside. He keeps his grip on Dean’s hair, and Dean could fight him—could wrench his head away, even if it meant a bald patch—could jerk his knee up and kick Sam where it hurts.

He could, but it feels so much better to be pinned. To be held and controlled.

“What about her?” Sam asks, dripping the words into his ear like poisoned honey. “What is it you like?”

He shakes his head the scant bit that’s allowed.

“Tell me or I’ll stop.” His hand pumps Dean’s shaft with firm, sure strokes, and sure enough, he stops to prove his point.

“Sammy,” Dean whines.

“Tell me.”

“Her—her eyes,” Dean gasps, feeling flooded with shame from head to toe.

“What about them?”

“They look like yours,” Dean blurts. He’s rewarded with Sam’s hand moving on him, and he sighs. “They’re kind. I like the way they crinkle at the corners when she smiles. I like—”

“Tell me.”

“She’s nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you,” Sam says. He bends his head and drops a kiss on the tip of Dean’s dick to prove it.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not the same. She—she looks at me like I’m still her little boy. She gives me things because she thinks I’ll like them—just because she thinks I’ll like them. Pie, and—and meatloaf and little trinkets she finds at the grocery store.”

Sam lets his hair go, and Dean can feel the ache. He uses his newly free hand to cup Dean’s balls and puts his mouth on him, taking him in, wet and sloppy.

Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, petting at him and dropping his other hand down to thumb the crease of where Sam’s lips meet his skin. Sam sucks him for a while, deep and messy and good. His eyes slide shut, and Dean breathes deep through his nose, lulled in the pleasure of it, relieved that the weird game they were playing is over.

Sam pulls off and tugs at Dean’s jeans, and Dean’s only too happy to oblige, shucking them along with his boxers—his t-shirt too. Sam strips down to nothing and climbs onto the bed, skin on warm skin. Sam is hard, his dick red and flushed when it presses against Dean’s.

It does something weird to Dean’s stomach, a weird swoop of lust to think that Sam’s been getting off on this—that he’s fucked up in the exact same ways that Dean is—they’re a pair, the way they’ve always been. He wants to ask, but he wants Sam to stop talking.

He leans up and captures his mouth instead. Sam opens for him, and their tongues slide together, wet and urgent.

Dean grips Sam’s hip hard, and Sam groans in approval. He reaches over and grabs the half-empty bottle of lube from Dean’s nightstand, pouring it into the cupped well of his palm. He kneels over Dean, painted in the golden glow of the lamp, the only source of illumination in this room underground. He looks like an idol. He looks like something strange and wild as he reaches back.

He opens himself up with a look of concentration on his face, and Dean can trace that look back and back, back to Sammy sitting at the battered kitchen table with his Algebra homework sprawled in front of him, chewing on the tip of his eraser as he worked out polynomials.

He grins when he sees Dean watching, and Dean is helpless in his wake, slack-jawed and restless.

He does it quick and messy. He reaches for the lube one more time and pours it in his hand, spreading it over Dean’s cock without bothering to warm it up. It’s cold—cold, and then it’s hot. Sam is sinking down on him, thigh muscles bunched and tight, and Sam is  _ tight _ around him, blood-warm and snug.

Dean lets his head thump back against the concrete wall and groans.

“Do you want her like this?” Sam asks.

Dean’s heart stutters. He thinks it might break.

Sam catches Dean’s arms and wraps them around his waist. Dean hangs on out of instinct—catch Sammy, hold him. Keep him from falling. It’s printed on every strand of his DNA. He holds on and lets Sammy ride.

“Close your eyes,” Sam says. “Imagine I’m her.”

He closes his eyes because he can’t bear to look at Sam right now. Because Sam is ugly and gorgeous. Because he loves and hates him. He shakes his head.

“Yes,” Sam says. “She’d feel so warm in your arms, warm and soft. You know the way she smells, right? Like rose shampoo. Like gunpowder.” He leans forward and kisses Dean, and Dean kisses back. “Imagine she tastes like me, and she loves you, Dean. She loves you.”

Dean doesn’t know if he starts crying at the first word or the last. He does know it doesn’t matter.

Sam rides him fast and hard, and Dean’s crying, crying. It chokes him, locks his throat up tight so he can’t breathe except in gulping, shivering gasps. His eyes are screwed up tight, and he’s blind with it.

Sam touches him softly, gentle little touches across his face, his lips. He wipes Dean’s tears away with the callused pads of his thumbs.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, baby boy. Everything’s fine. Mama’s got you.”

Dean shakes his head violently, and Sam shushes him. He fucks him. He kisses the tears from his cheeks with little flicks of his tongue. Dean imagines Mary in his lap, golden hair like a crown, thicket of curls between her legs, riding him like a stallion, and he feels ill. He wants and needs and fucking hates himself like nothing else.

Dean hiccups and sobs and goes soft before the end. Sam doesn’t say a word, just slides off his lap and sits beside him, back against the headboard. He pulls Dean into his chest, arm like a solid bar around his front, holding them snug and tight together.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. The sound is jarring in the quiet room.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I didn’t know.”

Dean laughs, ugly and bitter. “Yes you did.”

Sam falls quiet, and there’s nothing left but the sound of their quiet breathing coming back down to earth.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture)


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